Chapter 11 #2
“You’re shaking, Red?” he whispers, circling until he’s in front of me, watching me way too closely. “Or is that just me?”
I rip my hand free and stumble back a step, the floor feeling hot beneath my feet. My cheeks burn. My skin hums everywhere he touched, as if it’s still happening.
“Stop it.”
He stays still, watching silently with dark eyes fixed on mine, breathing slow and steady while mine comes out uneven and hurried.
“Make me.”
The words land heavily. Loaded. They sit between us and drain all the oxygen from the room.
I should leave. I know that. Every rational thought I have is screaming at me to grab the door and run before I do something I can’t undo.
Instead, I stay there, my heart pounding, anger and desire so tightly knotted I can’t tell which one’s holding me in place.
He steps into my space again.
“You hate me,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Good.” His mouth curves. “Means you feel something.”
A laugh slips out of me. “You’re unbelievable.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there. “You have no idea.”
“I wasn’t talking about sex, asshole.”
His eyes flick back up, as if I handed him something dangerous without realizing it.
“Oh,” he says softly, “I know.”
The words settle into me, causing my thoughts to scatter. I notice it happening, that familiar unraveling—the way my carefully arranged rules begin slipping away the moment he’s this close.
My body betrays me first. It leans forward before my brain can catch up and pull it back.
I hate how every sensible thought I have when I walk into this room gets pushed out the door the moment he looks at me like that.
And worse than all of it? I don’t want to stop him.
Not when his hand lifts to my cheek, when his touch is gentle, careful, nothing like the guy I’ve been fighting for weeks.
His voice drops lower. “You always run?”
I force a swallow, buying myself another second.
“Maybe it’s because today you were staring at me the whole time and not doing the work.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Maybe you were worth staring at.”
“You’re not funny.” My throat goes tight.
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
We’re too close. My chest can’t expand properly. His eyes shift to my mouth, and I recognize that stare. I’ve seen it before; I’ve never stood still long enough for it to land.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
The word is weak.
He hesitates briefly before leaning in.
It’s slow and unhurried.
As if he’s giving me every chance to stop him and already knows I won’t. His hand lingers on my cheek, thumb brushing my skin once before his mouth finds mine.
The kiss lands gently.
Not rushed. Just his lips fitting against mine with devastating certainty.
Heat floods through me instantly, a dizzying rush that steals my breath and knocks every thought straight out of my head.
My knees go weak. I grip his shirt without realizing I’ve moved, fingers curling tightly as if it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Fuck.
This isn’t how I remember it.
The memory from when we were fourteen flashes and burns out just as quickly. Too fast. All teeth and nerves and no idea what to do with any of it. That was a kiss you survived.
This is a kiss you feel.
His mouth moves against mine, as if he knows exactly how to break me down. He kisses me deeper without asking, and my body responds immediately. My lips part, and he takes that opening, his tongue brushing mine in a way that sends sparks straight through my spine.
My head spins.
The room tilts. The air disappears.
There is only him. The taste of him. His body’s heat pressing closer. The quiet sound he makes in his throat when I kiss him back without thinking, without holding anything back.
His hand slides into my hair, fingers tangling, holding me steady as the kiss deepens into something slow and consuming. My knees go weak, and I let myself sink into him, logic evaporating, resolve cracking clean in half.
This kiss is everything I acted like I didn’t want. Everything I told myself he couldn’t give me.
My bag slips from my shoulder and hits the floor with a soft thud that I barely notice. My hands clench his shirt, gripping tighter, nails digging into his chest as if I need proof he’s real.
“Fuck, Sam.” He groans into my mouth.
He lifts me as if I weigh nothing. His hands slide under my thighs, and instinct takes over before my brain can catch up. I wrap my legs around him, pulling myself closer, feeling the hard press of his cock against me as my breath breaks into uneven pulls.
The room tilts again. Everything narrows down to him.
He leans back slightly to look at me, forehead pressed to mine, eyes dark but steady. His hands remain steady, not moving to places they shouldn’t.
“Say stop,” he murmurs. “And I’ll stop.”
I know I should. I can feel every rational part of me screaming that this is the moment to step back, to remember who I am and what I want for myself.
But all I can think about is how right this moment feels. How every place where we touch seems to hum.
I don’t say it. I drag in his scent instead—heat, him, and trouble—while my fingers knot in his shirt, and my heart pounds reckless and wild.
Want crashes through me, sharp and dizzying, a craving humming beneath my skin.
I want his eyes on me, his hands steady and claiming, the way he makes the world go quiet until there’s nothing left but us.
That realization hits as hard as the kiss. Wanting him isn’t the problem anymore. It’s how impossible it feels right now to let him go.
The moment his lips press against mine, I fall. There’s no gradual start, no slow buildup—just fire and desire. His tongue slides along the seam of my mouth, craving more. I open for him, and everything changes.
The kiss turns reckless. Teeth, tongue, and breathless fucking hunger.
He walks, his hands gripping my hips, guiding me toward the bed without breaking the kiss. In the next heartbeat, he’s got me flat on my back. His weight presses into me, his mouth never leaving mine.
Our tongues tangle, messy and hot, as we chase air we don’t care about. He groans low, a sound pulled from deep in his chest, and it vibrates through me.
He grinds against me.
My whole body arches sharply. A jolt of pain shoots through my core, and my mind goes blank. It’s fortunate we’re lying down because otherwise, my legs would have collapsed. My stomach tightens, and I struggle to breathe.
I feel him.
His hard cock. Thick. Pressed against me through his jeans. My thighs shift restlessly, craving more. The heat between my legs pulses, already aching, already soaked from how fucking good he feels even with the layers still between us.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to truly look at me. His eyes follow my face slowly and purposefully, as if he’s memorizing every detail.
I should tell him to back off. I should push against his chest and remind myself why this is a stupid idea.
But, I don’t. I can’t move. I can barely breathe.
His hand comes up, thumb brushing my cheek, rough and gentle all at once. His touch steadies me even as it unravels everything inside me.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. His voice is low and husky, scraped raw, and it lands straight between my thighs. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
My breath stutters. My skin is too tight, too sensitive, every nerve lit up and waiting.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he says quietly. Like it’s something he’s been holding back and finally lets himself say.
His forehead presses briefly against mine, his warm breath near my lips. I feel his burden, the restraint he’s struggling to maintain.
“I don’t just want to kiss you here,” he says.
His lips brush mine, soft and teasing, barely there. It’s enough to make my head spin, enough to make my body arch up into him without thinking.
His mouth shifts, grazing my jaw, cheek, and ear. His lips brush against the sensitive skin underneath, and I shiver hard, a broken sound slipping out of me.
“I want to kiss you everywhere,” he whispers.
The words slide straight through me, setting my whole body on fire. Every bit of control I thought I had fractures.
I know exactly what he means.
And God help me, I want it too.
My eyes flutter shut as his mouth trails down my jaw. Each kiss dragging another shallow breath from my lungs. His lips are slow, wet heat against skin that is too tight, too exposed.
One hand slides beneath my shirt, fingers grazing up my torso. My nipples turn to glass, stiff and aching the second the fabric lifts. Both hands spread across my ribs, thumbs slowly slipping beneath the edge of my bra.
It’s a struggle to breathe.
His touch brands me. My back arches into him, desperate for more, my pulse thudding everywhere at once. He could ask for anything at this moment, and I’d give it to him.
His head drops lower, settling under my breasts, breath pouring over my skin in hot, broken pants.
“Your clothes are in my way.”
Fuck, my body lights up from the inside.
“I need them gone,” he says, his fingers already inching the hem higher. “I need to look at you.”
The words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do. But they do. Because it isn’t only about touching. It’s about seeing. About knowing. About stripping away every barrier and letting him take all of me, even the parts I don’t know how to give.
Oh God.
My heart hammers in my chest, the thrum of it filling my ears. My hand trembles slightly as I lift my arms above my head, and he helps me pull the shirt off, slow and careful, like unwrapping something precious.
I’m bare to him.
Almost.
His eyes never leave mine, not even for a second, and it kills me. I can’t hide. I am vulnerable, every bit of skin burning under his stare. My breath comes shallow as his fingers trail up to the clasp of my bra.
Nerves twist sharp in my belly.
Regret claws at the edges.